It was never going to be an ordinary day for me. But then again, I guess it depends on who you ask. Me? I'm used to it. I brought it on... It had to be done. But isn't that what all criminals tell themselves? "It had to be done, therefor, I am not guilty."

Let me ask you this... If you witnessed a murder, no background info or details to go by, would you believe the killer if they simply pleaded innocent? I wouldn't. Even though I am the victim in my situation, I can appreciate a bystander's point of view.

The lady that stood against me in court was very unyielding and specific. I couldn't blame her. If I'd had a nickel for every child-molester that claimed innocence in my day... Well, you know. I just wish I could've had a moment alone with this woman, explain my side of the story, tell the truth. Don't get me wrong, I requested it. I bet you could guess how that played out.

But guess what? I am innocent, and the jury believed me, so did the judge and whoever else matters. So why am I Iosing sleep over this case? Two words:

Elena Gilbert.

-Day 1

I walked to work today. Big mistake. The citizens in this county are almost as unrelenting as the court was my first go 'round. People are picketing my presence, throwing gum my way, banning me from their stores, and screaming obscenities at me. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to yell back at them.

I could never understand how people could be so judgemental towards people that they know nothing about. I mean, ease up a little. You weren't there when O.J. did or did not murder his wife. Leave the guy alone.

Not even my morning coffee can tame the fire in my gut. Partly because it's gonna take a lot more than coffee to cheer me up, but secondly because none of the coffee shops will allow me in.

"We have the right to deny anyone service," they say. "Now leave, you scum bag!"

I bow out gracefully, continuing my route to work. The people there are a little more forgiving than everyone else. My boss believes me and my co-workers are cordial, but stand-offish. I think they're afraid of me, like I'm planning to murder them all in their sleep, or something. Give me a break.

"Damon, get your ass in here!" My boss hollers. I suspect he's called to tell me how lucky I am to have this job back after the crap I pulled and not to get into any more trouble, or it's my ass.

I enter solemnly into his glass office and take a seat in the tattered, out-of-date chair. "Yes, sir?"

My boss is rather inconspicuous, so I find it funny when he tries to appear tough, using harsh language and actually being a disciplinary. He's a very small man, no facial hair or muscle to accentuate his appearance, making his speech that much more amusing. His North Dakota diction rings in my ears.

"Listen, Damon. Everyone here is really glad to have you back. Granted, that's probably because they... Well, they fear you," he informs.

"Leslie, I understand completely understand. I'll try and stay under the radar, now. Maybe I could work from home?"

He shakes his head reluctantly, scooting a piece of paper towards me. I glance at it and look at Leslie questionably.

"A letter of resignation?" I ask. "Les, I'm not resigning. I didn't write that."

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. "I know, Damon. I just didn't think it would do you any more good to be fired... Do yourself a favor. Just sign it."

"So, you're looking out for my best interest, huh? Are you sure you weren't just too much of a coward to fire me? Huh, Les?!" I storm out of his office and make sure to slam the door when I exit.

I'm furious. As if my life wasn't bad enough, now I'm an unemployed twenty-three year old with an almost-criminal record. Who's going to hire me? How am I going to pay my bills? I have no friends to stay with and even my family thinks I'm guilty. Can't live on the street because the townspeople will have me stoned, or something else horrible.

It's only eight o'clock in the morning. That gives me just enough time to drink myself into a coma and wake just as all the stores in town close. Then I can freely roam the streets with a pounding headache and see what all I've missed out on.

Six bottle, seven bottle, eight bottle.

It's going well so far, I think as I scream along with the crowd on TV. "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" In a drunken slur. A girl from Kentucky has just found out that her cousin slept with her boyfriend, who happens to be another cousin's brother's third cousin... Or something to that affect.

Nine bottle, ten bottle, eleven bottle.

"You filthy whore! I knew you was a slut when I met you, bitch!" They scream at each other and I get lost in the speech. I don't even know who's who anymore, but one of them got their weave yanked out. So that's what weave looks like... It's almost like real hair, to me. I bet it feels soft.

Twelve bottle, thirteen bottle, fourteen bottle.

"Ladies, ladies," Jerry says. "Okay, now we're gonna bring out your boyfriend. Everybody please welcome, Ricky Ray!" The crowd boos in unison and I boo along with them. That guy must feel so misunderstood. "Baby, I ain't sleep with that bitch. She a *beep* *beep*"

Fifteen bottle, sixteen bottle, Jack.

Why doesn't Jerry let the boobs show? I want beads...

10:31 PM

Oh, hell. I've got two packs left, might as well down 'em. I wander the streets silently with my cases in the backpack I'm carrying so as not to look suspicious. The streets are quiet and the air is still. It feels good, almost easing the pounding sensation I feel in my head.

Seventeen bottle, eighteen bottle, new pack.

I stumble across an old abandoned dog and take a seat next to him on the cold lonely grass. "You too, huh?" He doesn't respond. "What did we do to deserve this? I mean, you're a really good lookin' dog... Where's your owner?" Still no response.

Nineteen bottle, twenty bottle, twenty-one bottle.

"You want some?" I pour a bit of corona on the grass in front of he dog. He licks it greedily. "What's your name, dog?" He will not answer any of my questions... "Fuck you, too, then..." I wander off, away from the rude dog and follow a sidewalk until my feet hurt.

Twenty-two bottle, twenty-three bottle, twenty-four bottle.

I come across a familiar looking house at the end of the sidewalk, leading into a cul-de-sac. Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me and I swing around to catch the culprit. It's that dog. He followed me all this way. "What're you doin' here?" I question. He still won't answer, making me stomp my feet furiously.

Twenty-five bottle, twenty-six bottle, twenty-seven bottle.

The dog has got this crazed look on his face as he runs towards me at full speed. I'm almost scared, but I can't tell if he's even coming toward me or not... Just as I squint my eyes, in attempt to see a little clearer, I'm knocked on my back as the dog attacks me. "Stop it!" I plead, but he's not trying to hurt me, he's just licking my face.

I check my bag to see if I could possible salvage a swig from any of the last three broken glasses. There's beer all over the place, leaking from my bag and soaking the ground I stand on. I shoo the dog away but he won't leave me alone. Meanwhile, I stand and can automatically feel the cuts on my back from the shards of glass.

I reach under my shirt and pull my hand back, just as I'd suspected. Blotches of blood all over my hand. Shit. I leave the useless bag on the sidewalk and stagger to the familiar looking house while the dog follows behind me.

Knock. Knock.

No answer.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Help me!" I slur. "Open up!"

KNOCK! KNOCK!

Finally, I hear footsteps coming down a staircase and the locks on the door quack just before the door swings open, revealing a squinty-eyed young woman. She slowly allows her eyes to widen as much as they can while she adjusts to the light pouring through her door.

Now I know why this house looked so familiar. It's the quaint suburban home of Elena Gilbert.

I stupidly attempt to take a step into her house, but she slams the door violently, knocking me backwards and down the porch stairs. My head hits the wooden stairs hard and everything becomes black.